


Blood on the Stone

by Anorien



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorien/pseuds/Anorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil returns to Menegroth after the death of Elu Thingol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood on the Stone

_It can't be true._

The young prince of Doriath kicked his horse, urging it to go faster. The great black horse snorted and foamed, already overexerting itself. They were only a few leagues from Menegroth now, but no time could be wasted. Not after word had heard the ears of the young Elf.  
Thranduil could hear his pulse ring in his ears as they passed through the Girdle and into the valley. Halfway down the slope, he jumped from his stallion and ran as fast as he could, recklessly down the hill to the bridge. Panic took him and drove him to near to madness.

  
*

  
Thranduil had left Menegroth two days ago. He travelled slowly east, knowing he would catch up with his father and their people. They wished to escape the darkness that now fell over the west, but they were in no great haste. He would find them soon enough. He leaned back against the foot of a great oak, closing his eyes. Every now and again he would look to the nearby thicket where he led his horse - in these evil days, he took great care to keep himself hidden. The Elves of the Thousand Caves had a great price upon their head. After some time, he allowed himself to try to sleep.

  
"The King of Doriath is dead," a nearby Elf said, approaching the fire his companion was stoking. Thranduil jerked upright, turning to listen to them, taking care not to alert them to his presence a few yards away.

 

"Dead?" said the other in confusion. His companion nodded.

  
"Early yesterday. They say he was slaughtered, along with most of his court."

  
Thranduil jumped to his feet, terror and shadow overcoming his heart. Saddling his horse, he took off, faster than a loosed arrow, charging past the two Elves. His journey was all but forgotten as he made haste toward the palace of Thingol.

 

*

  
The young Elf's mind swam as he ran toward the gate. Thingol couldn't possibly be dead... and what of Melian? What of those who he held so dear to his heart? As he drew closer he saw that at least a dozen guards now stood at the gate. But these were not the usual guards - they were courtiers, armed now with blades and shields, their faces grim and frightened. They were no seasoned soldiers, some of them were younger even than he. They dared not hinder him as he crossed the bridge, making his way to the king's court.

  
No sooner did he approach the court when he froze, eyes wide with terror as he had never felt before. His breath left him, and he staggered backward until he was against the wall. For a moment, Thranduil wondered if he was having a nightmare. But even in the most haunted sleep, there could not have been a sight so harrowing as what lay before him.

  
The walls and floor were stained crimson, pools of blood now dried and thick upon the stone. Several dozen corpses now littered the floor, spears and swords scattered about them. Slowly, hesitantly, the young prince made his way forward. He looked at the bodies by his feet... Almost all of the king's guard, by who his own father had served for so long; several wardens and soldiers, who he had grown up with; some of his closest friends were among the dead.

  
As he looked at the bodies of the slain Elves, he began to question. Who would have done this? Was it the sons of Feanor? They had been responsible for the slaying of his kin before. Staring into they eyes of a deceased guard, he nearly tripped. He looked down, and saw under his boot the blood-stained blade of an axe. The prince crouched down, inspecting it. It was small, and the soldiers of Doriath were not wont to use axes. His eyes followed the handle, and draped over the arm of the axe's wielder was a thick beard. Thranduil now looked upon the face of one of the Dwarf-smiths. Scanning the room, he now saw the bodies of more Dwarves, most of them concentrated near the throne. In terror and anger, he stared silently at those who Thingol had welcomed and put his trust into, who had betrayed him.

  
"They followed him." The sudden voice startled the prince, who made a grab for one of his knives. As he spun around, he looked into the face of Mablung. His face was grim, saddened, paler than usual.

  
"The Dwarves quarrelled with him, refusing to give him the Nauglamir. He tried to avoid the confrontation, but they pursued him." He turned toward the throne, and Thranduil's gaze followed. After a moment he looked back to the Elf.

  
"They grabbed him by the throat," the dark-haired Elf said, as if reading the prince's thoughts. "They brandished their weapons, and..." He trailed off, staring now at the ceiling.  
"Melian. Where is she?" Thranduil said quietly, his voice cracking with grief.

  
"She had his body brought to their chambers. She has not left his side."

  
Thranduil took a few steps toward the corridor, but Mablung stopped him.

  
"She will speak to no one. She refuses to let anyone near but myself," he said softly. Thranduil closed his eyes, nodding.

  
"And what of the Silmaril?"

  
"It has been sent to Luthien and Erchamion." The prince swallowed, his throat dry.

  
"He should not have asked Beren for it." Mablung nodded in agreement. They were silent for a time, when he spoke again.

  
"You should go, ernil nin. Bring word to your father of what has happened. Keep from the Dwarf-road - some escaped, and their is a wrath now in their hearts. Do not follow the Silmaril." Thranduil looked at him grimly.

  
"I would not go near that accursed gem, save if the lives of those I love were dependent on it." Mablung nodded, saluting him.

  
"Take care, Thranduil Oropherion. May your life in the east be full of peace and joy." Thranduil returned the gesture.

  
"May peace return to Doriath, my friend."

  
They were the last words the two Elves would ever exchange.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> I have just recently finished "The Silmarillion" (save for the Akallabeth), and in doing so, have experienced an onslaught of heartbreak. Of course, the only thing to do was write about something horrific and upsetting, right?
> 
> ~I would say that in this fic, Thranduil is around 300 years old. I didn't want him to be too young, but I didn't want him to be too old either at the time of Thingol's death.  
> ~Thranduil left about a day and a half before the Dwarves killed Thingol. He was called away by Oropher, who was starting to lead the host of Elves eastward, and required Thranduil's assistance.   
> ~'ernil nin' - 'My Prince'


End file.
